


Orpheus, play yourself a path from hades

by Sovin



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Background Slash, Cancer, Friendship, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Lack of Communication, M/M, No Dialogue, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 19:56:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1197465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sovin/pseuds/Sovin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cancer comes to call again, and Grantaire tries to navigate treatment on his own, reluctant to involve his friends and upset all that's left of normal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Orpheus, play yourself a path from hades

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for this originally came from wanting to write a high school(ish) relationship that disturbed the usual tropes, and quickly turned into a dialogue free character/prose study. As such, it mostly focuses on Grantaire, with background relationship development and friendships, and the end is subtle but, I think, appropriate. Questions, comments, and requests for clarification always welcome. 
> 
> Also, I'm new to tumblr at sovinly.tumblr.com, feel free to drop by or say hello.

He feels like he's going to throw up, and it's not just the withdrawal symptoms.

The doctor must catch something on his face, but Grantaire schools his expression as much as is possible and runs his fingers through his hair with the sudden pang of realization that he might lose that, but he nods, slowly, sighs, and hopes it doesn't come out as shaky as he thinks it will. He's hoped it was gone, that it was done, but the cancer is back and he knew it already, has practically been able to feel it eating at his bones for weeks. The bruises came back - Bahorel's friendly wrestling blossomed over his side like the Black Spot, like blight spotting his skin - and he already knew.

Shaky, not feeling _there_ , he asks if this means chemo again. She's a fucking godsend, she doesn't push, doesn't comment or sympathize and he's so fucking glad she hasn't retired in the last twelve years. Even better, she doesn't ask after his parents or his sister this time, only nods, tells him she wants to run an aggressive course and that she’s glad he came in, that they caught it early.

The pit in Grantaire's stomach disagrees, but he tries for a smile and tries just as hard not to clench his hands in the fabric of his jeans. This next breath is a little shuddering, but he won't cry, only meets her eyes, and thinks of the Café Musain and asks if he can do appointments on days after their meetings.

She agrees and says it softly, and the brief hand on his knee is almost too kind before she turns to her computer, asking him a few questions to set the appointment up for him, running over the specifics with him as she types rapidly and he feels like he’s watching her through a screen. Snatching the papers from the printer, she signs all of them with the flourishing scrawl of her signature for his school and she makes sure he has her number and he wants to be sick again.

He thanks her, and this time the smile comes easier as he accepts the papers.  He earns a smile in return and that's enough to get him out the door with friendly words to the nurses, enough to get him on the bus, enough to get him home and in the door and breathing. His parents aren't home, they never are, and they already know - the words last night hadn't found so much as a flinch, and he knows he's on his own and he can't tell his sister, because she's been dreaming of university in Iceland for so long.

And he can't tell them either, Les Amis. They like him well enough, but Enjolras barely tolerates him as it is, and he can't do that to them, can't drag them down with him. He'll tell them after the chemo run, if the news is bad. Until then, he'll cling to normality with all the strength in his tattered muscles.

God, though, he should laugh, because it's already not normal. He quit drinking entirely when the bruises and tiredness came back, and other than the shaking hands, the nausea, the headaches, and everything else, he might be approaching the other side of okay. Well, not really, but he's going to pretend. He'll pretend everything, if he has to, because he doesn't know how to do this other than on his own.

Already, he has plans. Grantaire knows he's unpredictable. He knows they'll assume he's drinking more (isn't that funny, that withdrawal and chemo will look like him being drunk again), and he can always pretend to be going off the sauce if they catch on. Wednesdays will work, they'll get him through so that he feels human by Tuesdays, just in time to see them all and fight with Enjolras, and he doesn't want to fight with Enjolras, at least not seriously. He recognized a long time ago that Enjolras hated him, despised him, and thought him worthless, and Grantaire understands. He doesn't want love he won't get, or pity. He wants, if he has this little time left, a friend. Something at least approaching friendship, he doesn't care how selfish it is.

So it's good bye to the unnecessary baiting and he's going to _try_. He's going to try. But for now, he has to plan because if he doesn't, no one will and he can’t risk it all up in the air, needs something to hold him to the earth. By the time he gets it all in his head (too dangerous to write it down), he's exhausted and his hands are shaking and the walls seem like they'll start to tremble, so he lets himself the luxury of slipping slowly beneath the covers, turning the music on softly, and going to sleep.

The next day doesn't seem so bleak. Not that Grantaire is optimistic, he never is, but he's somehow settled into the quiet daze of seeing everything all over again and new. His homework is sloppily done but he doesn't care, the light outside is making everything look beautifully perfect.

He loses himself in it, then in paperwork, and then sketching while he thinks over and over again, thoughts threading like a repeating labyrinth, cycling on the same path. When he hops on the bus to catch the meeting at the Café Musain, he is suddenly struck with the desire to paint all of Paris, to let it unfold from his fingers, a city smeared over canvas in oils. He wants to capture it before he dies, if he does, and he might.

But then he's there and it's warm and comfortable and feels like coming home. His breath is deep and god, the smells settle him, the warmth coils around him like a happy cat, and Courfeyrac is calling his name, boisterous and brilliant. Grantaire's smile wants to falter, but he beams back, works himself in among them and tries not to let his eyes caress their faces so obviously, and Enjolras is scowling, he's always _scowling_ , but Grantaire can't even care right now.

He remembers the promise he made himself and doesn't pick or poke more than he needs to, and Enjolras' brow furrows but he doesn't seem to register it, and Grantaire can live with that. As the meeting winds down and descends into the pleasant blur of light and laughter (he feels drunk for the first time since the bruises showed up, he missed it, needed it, it's like nothing else, being here), Grantaire remembers his plan and leans over to grin at something Courfeyrac says, and boldly bets his hair on the outcome (he knows he will lose, it's a fool's bet that doesn't seem foolish). Courfeyrac is gleeful and Marius is grinning because his best friend is and Joly's laughs are more like snickers.

It's late when he leaves, and he doesn't care, because the night feels perfect. It fills his lungs like music and he wants to fix it in his mind forever, something precious to cling to when the world comes crashing down upon his head. When he gets home, it's silent and Grantaire feels like singing as he sits before the canvas, and paints. By the time he finishes, swirls in the forgotten flower in Jehan's braid, exhaustion has seeped through him, but his smile is giddy as he collapses into bed because it is perfect. Tonight has been perfect and for a moment, he forgets.

It slips up on him in the morning, strangling him. The tiredness that will tattoo marks under his eyes, the ache in his hands and his head as he sips water, and he wants a drink. He craves it, something to take his mind off the crushing realization that this is _real_ and happening all over again and that he's alone, because he's shut out his friends, and they will never forgive him. But he can't put them through this and he doesn't deserve them half over. He's running late by the time he drags himself up and the world sloshes around him like overwatered paints, running down like rain around him. He's dreading this, dreading the paperwork and explanations and the temptation to scream this death sentence loud enough to pierce the ears of tourists.

Instead, he lets himself be late, plucks a flower and hands it gently to a little boy who looks teary eyed, talks to a woman on the bus who looks overwhelmed with the weight of the world, and ignores the glare of the teacher. He wants so much to run, to leave and to not come back, but he can't. It's a war of impulses in his chest - not to disappoint his family any more than he already has, not to disappoint _Enjolras_ who will hate him if he drops his studies, not to lose his friends, and the want to be alone and away and the feeling, ever increasing, that this doesn't matter, that if he dies, he wants it to be railing against some political philosophical argument he doesn't really care about, wants it to be with paint staining his skin like sin. But the former wins out because it feels like the future, and he trudges, after classes, to the offices and spins it out, lets them think he's stricken by the news when he just can't bear to see the pity in their eyes.

By the time he gets home, his world feels washed in watercolour greys, but Grantaire thinks this is something he can live with. Paris out the windows of the bus washes itself into puddles of pale colour and he paints it loosely, a skeleton waiting for the next time he returns like an absent lover, because he has several days worth of work to catch up on and his hands are still shaking and he's so tired and he is amazed he isn't hallucinating, still. Sometimes he wonders if he ought to scratch out his time into sections and segments, but it would box him in and condense him into panicked phrases, so he lets it be and hopes that this is one more wave he can ride out.

It's Wednesday and it's cold, or he is cold, chilled to the bone and wishing that he didn't have all of this to contend. It's Wednesday and he swings off the bus and up to the hospital and he wants to pretend that he isn't going to become used to this, that the only reason he'll come is for Bahorel and Joly and the children on the oncology floor who deserve to be everything they wish they were sketched out on paper or in songs, wishes he could forget he won't be the hope of getting through he used to be. So he sighs and smiles and something curls tight inside him like the curls he might not have much longer as he sits through the spiels again, and it takes just an hour for him to throw up. He watches videos mindlessly and tries not to think that he's wasting time. And when it's over, he feels sucked dry, drier and deader than after a biting argument with Enjolras and he wants to be home. But home means the Café Musain in ways he doesn't want to admit and he can't, so he trudges back to the house and his parents left yesterday night. Grantaire is thankful to be alone.

On the next day he feels better, he drags himself to the market and cooks in shifts between homework and painting and sprawling out on the couch or the floor feeling like he's hungover when he hasn't had anything to drink in long enough that it isn't twisting his gut as much as the aftereffects of the chemo. He makes foods that he can heat up, that will keep, and he knows this is what he'll have to do, because what else can he do? And then Courfeyrac texts him and Grantaire can't let the breathless pressure of panic build up because he lost the bet he knew he'd lose. He lost the bet he knew he would and it's another twist in his stomach that he won't know how long it would take for the chemicals to bleach his hair from his head like bone.

He stands in the bathroom and runs the razor through his curls, dark as ink and thicker, tries not to feather them into more as they pile on the floor. It's half done when he realizes how much he cares, how much it felt like a trophy, how much he'll miss it there to play with or for others to (Courfeyrac ruffling his hands in it, Jehan playing with strands and braiding, Musichetta smoothing it down with a quiet smile of affection, Éponine tugging and teasing), and it's the first time he lets himself cry. Grantaire sets the razor down when he's done and drops (not collapses) on the floor and sobs himself sober, weeps free all the feelings that have been welling up in him like infection and if he moves, he'll look for a drink, so he sits, stays sitting, on the floor, and god.

The next day aches like the crick in his neck but he plasters on a grin when he saunters in to the café and they stare at him and he plays it off like nothing, like it is nothing, and his hands are shaking again and god, will they ever have a chance to stop? He doesn't want to think about it (but he does, has plans for letters and everything more). So he smiles through it and lets them exclaim and barely notices the stricken look on Enjolras' face, and Grantaire makes it all work out, distracts them, dances around them and tries not to think of the punch they won't expect. He hates himself. He has never hated himself more than for what he will do to them.

It amazes him, how quickly life slides together even as it slides apart. Grantaire's days have flooded into a hazy pool of fatigue and illness, of striving and falling, of half finished paintings and sleepless hours. Yet. And yet. He plays off his pallor and his quiet mood as sobriety (which is true, sometimes, almost, but not the whole truth) and feels stabbed when his friends cheer him and surround him with affection and belief like buttresses, flying from the wreck of his body as he inevitably collapses inward, but his heart is hazy with love for them. He speaks with Enjolras, actual conversations and moments of connection where they see one another and comprehend, across the gaps, what they cannot when they are yelling at one another. Grantaire feels that everything might be worth it, doesn't mind dying when he has friendship like this, when Enjolras steps like a statue from his platform and he wishes he had the strength to have done all of this when he wasn't rotting inside.

Something clicks in his head, that he doesn't care, so much, what others (strangers) might think of the things he paints and he cannot box, cannot fence, cannot dance, and so he will paint as much as he is able. He is up early and makes an account on the internet and posts - R, only R, the grand R and the grand wretch, who is too selfish for truths. It comforts him, some, to know that there is something of the world through his eyes preserved (there is a painting in blues and browns and greys in the watery tones from the hospital bed of an IV drip and a mostly drawn window, mostly in shadow, and this is the one he will post last, if he can - it is still too personal to share). He considers what he might say and ought to say and pencils out letters and commits them to heavy paper, confessions and earnest exhalations of affection, drawings and seriousness and wildness, at the whims of the Dionysian revels of his cells.

His parents are gone, still. They will not be back for months. Grantaire will not allow himself to be bitter and puzzles over his maths - in case. And he fills his days with Les Amis when he is not chained to the hospital bed by medications that are killing him and he and Enjolras are flirting, this is flirting, and Grantaire will die happy now (as long as Enjolras doesn't _know_ ). And then the fearless leader in red is asking if he will help with their protest, their rally, and all Grantaire wants to do is sleep but he would shake the earth apart for Enjolras and says yes, and it is a heady thing, to have trust upon his shoulders. But he has drained himself of strength without consent, and he should have known that there were no mountains he could move.

Three blocks from his house (slow going, slow going, he feels like he's flying apart inside and he can't bring himself to care), he collapses. There is no thought, no surprise or exclamation only one minute he is determined and then there is nothing, nothing at all, and his body is crumpled on the sidewalk, and he wakes in the hospital. He wakes in the hospital and the two minutes of disoriented bliss are not enough when he remembers that he has let them down, has let down that stunning friendship barely extended, and he wants to weep but makes do with plucking at the tape on his arm. He can't bear to look at his phone, does not until he's released the day after and it's a Tuesday.

He limps home long enough to wash away the sordid evidence and the lingering perfume of disinfectant, pulls his cap low over his bare head, enough to hide his thinning brows, and feels himself collapsing inward even as he makes his way to the Café Musain. They stare at him, and Grantaire knows he has disappointed them, knows that he has betrayed their trust in a way that would not be forgotten for a long time (will never be, because he is dissolving). He tries a feeble defense but it was hardly worth preparing, when he is two words in and Enjolras snaps in fury, a too bright beautiful hurricane of anger, and he tells him to get out, to leave, exiles him and he has been cast out. He doesn't argue, only turns, and leaves.

And with that, Grantaire has stopped trying. Not fighting, he is far too stubborn for that, but he has given up all semblance of his normal life, in the wake of this disaster and rejection. He submits forms to the school, all signed by his concerned doctor on the day of his next appointment, and stops going to class. (He replies to the scant texts – Joly and Jehan and Bahorel – apologizes, promises he is well, he will be back, is giving them (Enjolras) time to settle, and he feels so damned, condemned, and guilty.) There is nothing to fill his time but work, so he does it anyway (it wouldn't do to be behind if he survives), and art, which fills up pages of the internet, paintings and sketches and photographs, and in a fit of tiredness, the painting of the hospital room, and sleep, where Jehan inks sonnets on his arms and Bossuet trades stories with him and Enjolras smiles and it is all the more bitter.

He hangs the painting of Les Amis on his wall and clings to the golden glow of the Café Musain and tries not to sob. He has run out of tears, he feels, for this. And, he supposes, none too soon, because he feels so sapped down to nothing, frail and fragile on legs that used to propel him effortlessly, and his face feels featureless without eyebrows, and even his arms, his chest, his eyelashes are looking spotty, ragged and ratty. So Grantaire can't help but be glad that this, at least, his friends never had to see, that they will never have to see if he receives bad news and likely not even if the news is not so bad and he knows it was his fault.

The hospital seems endlessly far from the still empty house, but he lingers all the same and not even hats help by this point, but the bus drivers and the passengers know him by now, and cruel murmurs and comments are silenced swiftly and no one jostles him when he slowly makes his way to the door, giving and receiving smiles and it feels like a painful kindness (he will paint this, later, featureless people on buses who keep his barely there body company, in oils, he thinks, softened and blurred and quiet). He has felt worse, but there is a touch of melancholia in him today and he closes his eyes in the bed, other than when he is throwing up what little his body can manage, before leaning back, letting classical music lull him and he misses dancing to this, lets it swirl him around in his head and settle him as it is wont to do.

He always manages tired smiles for the nurses, when they come in, and his doctor (bless her, he doesn't know what he would do without her, feels guilty that she risks her job by not asking questions she should, he’s not yet legal). So he's cracking his eyes open to do so when the door opens and the nurse asks if one of the volunteers can keep him company and there's Enjolras in the doorway. And there's Enjolras' blue, blue eyes going wide, and Grantaire can only imagine how he looks - how thin and painful and frail (like glass, like bottles he wants to shatter on the wall when he is aching for drink), how _wretched_ and shriveled and he wants to shrink in on himself and curl in on himself and die because not even Enjolras can mistake him now.

But it's the breathy, uncertain stutter of his name and Grantaire nods, watches uncertainly as Enjolras crosses and hesitantly takes a seat, eyes still riveted to Grantaire's face. They sit in silence for a moment until Enjolras' mouth starts to form a question and Grantaire cannot bear to look, closes his eyes and rasps out what self destruction is tearing him apart, and then, when asked, with fear and an edge of fury, how long, answers honestly. He is expecting anger, and betrayal, or worse, dismissal, or worse still, pity.

What he gets is another choked murmur of his name as Enjolras slowly tests out the waters, selects his words and his questions as though rolling their weight on his tongue, still fixed on Grantaire, hands clenched in his trousers, asks if it was true he was alone, here, if no one knew, and all Grantaire can do is offer his feeble defense, again, but it's accepted, this time, though there's something like breaking in Enjolras' eyes, like soaring paintings on cathedral ceilings cracked clean through.

His voice is dry, is silent, is nearly as tortured as Grantaire's as he asks if this is why he'd been unable to follow through with his commitments. And he can't bear it, closes his eyes so he doesn't have to see Enjolras, turns his head to the weak light of the window, and admits it, admits, reluctantly, that he was here, hooked up to machines because there was a different kind of poison than alcohol in his veins, in his cells now (again). The last thing he expects (when did Enjolras get so good at surprising him?), is for there to be a brush of marble cold fingers against the back of his hand, the silent question in the other's eyes, and their hands, pressed.

They sit there for the rest of the afternoon, veering occasionally to the edge of arguments but there's still a wild glint of fear in Enjolras' eyes and he backs down and Grantaire has no idea what to make of that. So they circle the subjects carefully, and he slowly admits what's been happening and why and it's hard, it's so hard, he wants to cry but he's feeling too nauseated for that, and it's probably good that he couldn't do more than retch anyway. And so they fall quiet, like Enjolras is processing, doesn't want to push his luck or drive Grantaire away (not that he could, tethered to the bed and limp like this), but continues to hold his hand, a little comforting, a little uncertain, a little desperate, as he looks at him, studies him, the bird thin and fragile wrists and unnaturally pale skin, the shaking of his hand and the hollows of his face until Grantaire turns away, embarrassed.

By the time he's allowed to go home, he can't even be bothered to fight the wheelchair even with Enjolras there, doesn't protest much or very bitterly when the other teen offers to drive him home. It's slow, and quiet, and Paris seems to part before them in some silent tribute to this unsteady truce between them. It's hard to focus and to rasp out the directions home, but they manage, and the red of helpless frustration and embarrassment floods his face when he has to lean on Enjolras, letting him half carry him into the house and get him upstairs. Flustered, he reluctantly acquiesces to food for later, and Enjolras lingers in the doorway, looking like the last thing he wants to do is leave, and Grantaire can't decide. And then his eyes catch on the painting of the Café Musain’s back room, flushed with warmth and summer-sweet and he breathes out a soft sound of surprise and Grantaire isn't sure how they end up on the bed together, Enjolras is too warm to crawl under the heavy layers of blankets, but it's like some dizzy and dazed fever dream as he's settled against Enjolras' side, feeling comfortable for the first time in weeks. And then Grantaire wants to protest, reach up in a flurry, because Enjolras is gently tipping the stupid hat off his head, the feel of his long fingers strange on the bare and sensitive skin and he lets it be, for the moment, when Enjolras shifts just enough to rest his cheek against the top of Grantaire's head, and he settles, never notices when he falls asleep.

Their peace lasts until the morning and Grantaire really doesn't want to have this conversation but Enjolras is quietly insistent, seems like he might rage when he realizes Grantaire has been here by himself the whole time, like he might cry when it hits him how _alone_ he has been, and they discuss the meetings even if this is literally the last thing he wants to be doing. But that's how he finds himself in the hallway of the Café Musain, hovering by the tiny coat room and trying to imagine how Enjolras has explained he'll be coming by, that he has something to say, if he said it sadly or angrily or with the same exasperation he had when Grantaire had balked at the idea of coming, of admitting what had been happening, of letting the complication of the hospital wash away the way he'd let them down (he doesn't deserve it, can't deserve it, doesn't know what to do with it).

Yet - Enjolras had said the time, and Grantaire had reluctantly agreed, and it's useless, but he tugs his hat on tighter as though it can hide the wreck of his brow-bare face, his blotchy skin, dark lashes like a half plucked flower in Jehan's absent hands, the redness of his eyes and the darkness under them - red and black and red and black and - He is grateful, for once, for the perpetual feeling of cold that has him ducking into a hoodie, into a coat that hides the rawness of his ribs and the starkness of what had once been toned muscles. He has always been ugly, and that he can allow, but for the first time, he looks vulnerable, and it is an uncomfortable itch under his skin. But he had agreed, and so he swallows hard and fights the urge to close his eyes, to let the weakness and fatigue and nausea take over so he can collapse, and nudges open the door to walk, falteringly, inside.

In an instant, he wants to back out, because there are the gasps and flinches and repetitions of his name and his head is spinning and his stomach is in his throat and he can't breathe he can't breathe he can't - and then he can, makes himself, and pushes the panic back down willfully, and risks a peek up. Grantaire just catches a glimpse of the understanding dawning in Joly's eyes and feels guilty, looks down again, at some unspecified point between the tables and hopes he looks casual as he rests some of his weight against the back of a chair as he tells them, quietly, that this is why he has been gone, why he let them down, that he knew but now he doesn't know and won't for another couple of weeks and he feels awkward and exposed and grainy, like the world is out of focus and blood is pounding in his ears.

It's more out of need than comfort as he sits, but Enjolras' hand brushes his for a moment, subtle and soft like a phantom in the midnight air, but it's enough to ground him as he sinks down. There's a moment of uncomfortable silence after the surprisingly gentle rush of assurances, like a waterfall that's so grand it's like a dull roar in the ears rather than the full weight of it, and Grantaire wants to cry again, or run, and then there's Jehan gently sliding into his lap, wrapping his arms around his neck and murmuring that he looks cold as he slips a flower in between knit rows of his hat, and suddenly this feels doable.

They talk, awkwardly, and Grantaire answers questions and doesn't realize his throat has gone dry until Joly unobtrusively sets a bottle of water by his hand with an amiable and friendly smile and he can't help smiling back. His discomfort must be obvious, because Combeferre, bless his house and bless his name, gently redirects them to the meeting and Enjolras takes over. At some point, Jehan slips out of his lap and Grantaire tries to pay attention, but he is so tired, like the rush of water has all at once crashed into his chest, and his head is pillowed on his bony arms and the next thing he knows, he's waking to the sound of the meeting winding down, Feuilly's coat and Bahorel's both draped over his shoulders as casually as if he were a coat rack rather than an invalid and he can accept the gesture that way and shoots them a cracked smile.

It's surprising that they invite themselves over (Enjolras must have revealed that he's alone in the house), but Grantaire is even more surprised that he is comforted by that, that he wants them there because he's missed them and this and nothing sounds better than being cuddled in with them and safe. He basks in that for a moment, lets it wash over him like lazy, weak sunlight breaking over the carpet, as they sort it out (hears Courfeyrac on the phone murmuring to his mother please, doesn't she remember the boy who painted her dahlias in vivid colours like pale sunrises) and finds his hand in Enjolras' again and this makes the fear fade, and the future, because within the hour he finds himself leaning against Bossuet’s side back home, and he manages some Thai as they watch bad movies. When they go to bed in the nest of blankets and pillows (Grantaire doesn't even understand how that got put together, but he can't complain, not hardly), it's as wonderful and as healing as he could have hoped and he feels it like a knot in his chest that eases, curled between Enjolras and Jehan.

The next week is like cold water in the face, shocking and confounding his system, because he has been so alone and so lonely, and now he has time to paint and for quiet, but there's at least one of them around every day, and Enjolras, always Enjolras, mouth pursed and brows furrowed gently in concern until Grantaire teases them away, the golden yellows and greens and browns of his paints on his hands or nothing at all. It is easy and it settles him and soothes him in a way he hadn't known he'd needed or even wanted, but he allows it to becalm him, because motionless is how he needs to be for an afternoon or an hour. Enjolras comes with him to the next session and Grantaire can barely breathe for thankfulness, he feels so weak, hasn't picked up a paintbrush in days for fear it would fall from his fingers. It distracts him from the fact that he feels worse, as though his body is crumbling like the ruins of the temples of the Greeks, color stripped from his body like paint scoured from statues, as though he is some dead and desecrated shrine.

When he gets out, Bahorel is there, leaning against the wall like this was his smoke break and he is getting a special thank you when this is all over because he sweeps Grantaire up in his arms to carry him to the car and exchanges quips about princesses with him and carries him inside, too. _Extra_ special thank you, because he notices Grantaire going pale and detours and rubs between his shoulders as he throws up like he used to do when they got too drunk, and is blessedly ignoring Enjolras' indignant and concerned hovering outside the door to give a moment to recover. They manhandle him into bed and he convinces them, somehow, to stay and watch movies even though he keeps dozing off.

He wakes up before dawn, pale blues and greys casting themselves neatly across floor and bed, and realizes that he has a week before the tests. It stirs something in him, and he leaves Enjolras splayed like Apollo in the last of his sister's shadows, sits, and paints. It swells up in him again, and he is using colours he hasn't thought to touch and is letting the canvasses fill up when he isn't with his friends, and as they dry, he manages to find his cheap and rickety tripod again, takes pictures and floods the internet with them again, but can't bring himself to do more. Feuilly comes by on a day off with a wheelchair he found somewhere and Grantaire could kiss him, because they slip through Paris like walking an old and familiar beat, and Courfeyrac joins them for a few hours, and somehow they end up at the Café Musain for dinner and he has missed this, missed his city sprawled out and living before him. It is beautiful and he is sorry that he might have to miss it.

The night after the tests, Les Amis spill into his home again, and the mood is different, and Jehan is careful in tracing poetry on his arms and this feels like a vigil and he doesn't know how he feels. The morning is solemn and underrun with anticipation, but he is wild and savage and laughs, full and bright like the hunter's moon, and shoos them out with affection. Enjolras goes with him, and Grantaire, for all the anxiety clawing out his throat, has to muffle his amusement that his whatever-it-is-that-they-are (he is too terrified to define it until he _knows_ ) has won the approval or at least the grudging respect of the bus route regulars. But this is his, and he kisses his fingertips at the entrance to the hospital proper, leaves him in the waiting room like a promise. He has asked, ahead of time, to be given the papers, because he knows that is the only way he will believe the answer is real, but his hands tremble anyway (fragile and skeletal, clawed death reaching from the Styx for permission to drown).

Grantaire steels himself, lets her words wash over him as he unfolds the papers, and looks down with strange and sudden stillness. He takes it in, thinks of Enjolras and their indefinite potential waiting for him in a room of cold tile, of their friends clustered in the Café Musain and its feeling of certainty, of the canvasses and papers and tools silently and patiently sitting, of possibilities and second and third chances, of things that fill the heart, and he smiles.


End file.
